A man of honour, p.28
A Man of Honour, page 28
Lord Robert turned to look at him, and said, ‘Morning, O’Neill.’
‘Good morning, Your Lordship.’ Staring at Moira, he nodded, and went on, ‘Hello, Miss Moira, nice to see ye.’
‘Likewise, Blackie. I think your guesthouse is starting to take shape.’ As Moira Aherne spoke, she was looking towards the copse of trees at the other end of the lawn. ‘You’re building a charming house, and it’s in a perfect spot.’ She spoke with a quiet confidence, returned to her rightful position in the world by the patronage of the Earl. She stood beside Robert, dressed in a luxurious soft tweed suit and polished brown boots, her pale hair pinned up under a fashionable hat.
‘Thank ye,’ he said, smiling. The building had really come on in the last few months, and he was glad Lord Robert had approved the change in position. He turned to address Lord Robert. ‘I’ve brought all the drawings for the interiors, m’lord. They’re on the dining-room table, and I wondered if we could go through them. If I’m not disturbing ye.’
‘Excellent idea, Blackie. Let us go up to the house, and dig in.’ Glancing at Moira, he said, ‘If you will excuse me, my dear, I have work to do with O’Neill here. But Adrian is in the study with my old friend Harry Peterson, who arrived for a visit late last night. I’m sure they would appreciate your company.’
‘I shall go and join them, Robert. See you later for lunch.’
Once Robert had removed the two silver candelabra and put them on the sideboard, Blackie spread the large sheets of paper across the table.
Slowly, Blackie walked him through the sketches of the rooms in the guesthouse, starting with the two sitting rooms at the back of the house, facing the lawns.
‘I decided to reduce the sitting rooms, m’lord. I think two work well enough. Do ye agree, Lord Robert?’
‘I do indeed. Good decision on your part, Blackie. And I do like these rooms … tall windows, each room with a fireplace, and I notice you’ve sketched in sofas and chairs. Excellent. Easy for me to visualize. You’ve done truly great work. The builders have made good progress over the past few months.’
‘Yes, and me uncle is doing very well as the foreman.’ Blackie cleared his throat, then said, ‘I just want to remind ye that I won’t be here next week, Your Lordship. At the beginning of this project, I did explain I had to be at Fairley Hall sometime in February. My uncle promised Squire Fairley that I’d take care of the job, as I’m the best one to do the stonework on the chimneys and other bits and pieces that they need.’
‘Ah, yes, I do recall that, O’Neill. Very honourable of you to inform me, and, of course, to keep your commitment to Squire Fairley. I believe you said your uncle would be here in your place again. That is fine with me. He’s excellent, good with the men. So, we will continue, and I will await your return. And thank you again for your dedication, O’Neill.’
‘It is my pleasure, Your Lordship.’
Lord Robert went into his library and strode over to his desk. He had many papers to deal with, but ignored them and sat back in his chair, lost in his thoughts. He was impressed by Blackie O’Neill, admiring the young lad’s talents. Mostly self-taught, he was growing into a clever draughtsman and builder. A good lad to have working for him. No, not a lad, not any more.
Robert sighed. At eighteen, our young men are old enough to be sent to the front to fight in a war when necessary. That’s what they always did – send their young to die in foreign fields. Cannon fodder, he muttered to himself. But it was the young who were fit, energetic and enthusiastic; they wanted to go and vanquish the enemy, joyful in their mission.
‘Well, thank God, there are no wars at the moment,’ Robert said out loud to the empty library.
There had been none since the Boer War, and the whole world was at peace for once. But for how long? he asked himself.
There was always one bugger who wanted to invade another country, seeking power, money and so-called glory. But, it seemed to him, there were none of those devils around at the moment. I pray to God this gentle peace lasts, Robert thought, getting up and going to the circular table near the fireplace. There were newspapers and magazines on it, and a book about the Boer War. He picked it up, took it over to the bookshelves, and put it back in its place. His eyes caught another history book, one about Wellington, who had defeated the Emperor Napoleon in the little Belgian town, Waterloo, in 1815. He had enjoyed reading it. Taking it out, placing it on the table, he would give it to O’Neill later. He was well aware Blackie liked reading about great achievers.
Leaving the library, Lord Robert strolled down to his study to join Adrian, Moira and Harry Peterson, who had worries about his newly acquired Cézanne. This did not surprise Robert at all.
His eyes rested for a moment on Moira. He thought of her like a niece. Her position in polite society was less assured than most of his family, her illegitimacy an open secret, but with his backing and her inheritance, he knew she would be accepted in London society.
She would need a chaperone, and he would sponsor her, so that she would never again need to run to strangers for help.
FIFTY
It was an icy cold February day, and Blackie wished he did not have to cross the moors to get to Fairley Hall. He had no alternative.
Squire Fairley was expecting him, and the latter had made a contract with his Uncle Patrick many months ago. He had been taught that his word was his bond, and he had promised his uncle he would tackle the job.
Because he was building the guesthouse for Sir Robert, Blackie had been able to push the Fairley job to one side for several months while they made a start on that project, and his uncle had agreed. But now the time had come to keep the commitment to the Squire. His uncle insisted on that. Over the past few years, the Squire had sent some good jobs their way for people he knew in Leeds. Uncle Pat would go to Harrogate to oversee Blackie’s builders. He knew his uncle would be on top of things. No worries there. Bolton Manor was in safe hands.
Blackie glanced up at the long stretch of moors above him, dark, sombre and always windswept. A harshly beautiful, desolate, grim place all year round.
Not quite true, Blackie thought. In August, the heather bloomed and turned those rolling hills into a sea of purple. But for such a short time, he added to himself.
Yesterday, he had travelled to Shipley and spent the night in a small bed and breakfast. The owner, Mrs Craven, had told him to take the lower stretch of moorland, following the wide gravel path. This path would take him to the highest part of Fairley village where there were no houses, only several paths branching off.
‘Just stay on the wide path,’ Mrs Craven had warned him. ‘It gets very misty around those particular moors. Yer don’t want to get lost.’ He had noted everything she had told him; others had alerted him about the fog.
It seemed to Blackie that it got chillier as he walked along at a steady pace, and at one moment, he put down the sack he was carrying, pulled off his cap and took off his scarf. After tying the scarf around his head, he replaced the cap and turned up the collar of his coat, feeling warmer almost at once.
Within twenty minutes, he found himself in clouds of mist and had to peer ahead to make out where he was. He really couldn’t see anything, but his boots crunching on gravel reassured him he was on the wide path. It was not long after that he realized the crunching sound had stopped. Damn, he thought, I’m off the path. How did that happen? I’m lost!
This thought took hold as he walked on. He wasn’t sure what to do. A moment or two later, his dilemma was solved. Peering ahead he saw another person further along the path. Man or woman? He wasn’t sure. He plunged ahead, calling out, ‘Wait! Please wait! Wait for me.’
Suddenly, the mist lifted slightly and, as he rushed forward, he realized it was a young woman in a long, worn-out coat, wrapped in shawls and with a scarf around her head.
She had hidden behind an outcropping of rocks, and looked terrified. ‘Get away!’ she yelled. ‘Ye looks like a monster.’
‘I’m not a monster,’ he shot back. ‘Don’t be afeard, little colleen. I’m just a man who’s lost, looking to get to Fairley Hall.’
‘Fairley Hall!’ she exclaimed, edging out from behind the rocks. ‘Why do yer want ter go there?’ She peered at the man, intrigued now.
Realizing he had caught her interest, and that she sounded less afraid, he moved towards her. ‘Let me tell ye.’
‘Get back!’ she shouted. ‘Don’t move!’
‘I be going to Fairley Hall to do some chimney repairs,’ Blackie explained, gently now.
‘Where did ye meet the Squire?’ she asked cautiously, every inch of her alert.
Blackie had drawn closer, and he noticed she had the greenest eyes he had ever seen. And now they looked wary, and her face was stern. Yorkshire folk were suspicious, he knew. He said, ‘I met the Squire in Leeds. He’d heard I used to be a navvy, working on the canals. This told him I was strong and a good worker. And he knew my uncle.’
The girl moved out from behind the outcropping of rocks, and said in a more controlled tone, ‘I heard a navvy was coming ter the Hall. I’m going there, so yer can walk with me. What’s yer name then? Or don’t yer have one?’ She sounded scathing, and just a bit haughty.
Blackie laughed a deep belly laugh. ‘Sure an’ I do, I swear on the heads of the Blessed Saints. Shane O’Neill’s the name, but the whole world calls me Blackie.’
The girl looked up at him, trying to see him better in the vaporous mists. She decided he must be Irish, because of his name and the singsong voice he had, a sort of lilt in his speech.
‘And what might ye be called?’ he asked, breaking the silence.
The girl did not answer. She believed the less that people knew about you, the safer you were. And if they knew nothing at all, they could not harm you. And so she did not answer him.
‘Come on, little colleen. What’s your name?’
‘Emma. Emma Harte’s me name,’ she finally said.
‘So let’s be a-marching, Emma. Devilish cold ’tis out here.’
‘Come on,’ she muttered, and hurried ahead of him, leading the way out of Ramsden Ghyll, and up onto a flat piece of land, a plateau of moors that led directly to the Hall.
Within a short while, the mist had cleared, and Emma stole a glance at Blackie, her curiosity getting the better of her.
To her surprise, although he was the tallest man she’d ever seen, he only looked about eighteen. She wasn’t sure. But she was sure of one thing, his kindness. It had echoed in his voice when he had spoken to her in the Ghyll, and now it was reflected in his face. Instinctively, she knew he was a good man.
Blackie smiled back at her, taken by her pretty face and those emerald eyes. ‘So, where is the Hall, colleen?’ he asked.
‘Yer can’t see it from here. But it’s not far. Just over the crest.’ She laughed. ‘I’ll show yer,’ she exclaimed, somewhat taken with her new friend.
‘Do ye live nearby?’ Blackie asked, as they headed towards the crest of moors in front of them.
‘At the edge of the moors back yonder. In a cul-de-sac called Top Fold, the highest part of Fairley village. I’d just been walking five minutes when I heard yer blundering behind me.’
‘I’m sorry I frightened ye, little colleen,’ Blackie apologized. ‘I was lost, though. Well, so I thought. Ye were a welcoming sight, I can tell ye that.’
‘Never been on the moors before then?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘So where do yer live?’ Emma asked, riddled with curiosity about Blackie.
‘Leeds. Do ye knows it?’
‘No, I’ve never been. What’s it like then?’
‘Ah, ’tis a wonderful place, Emma. A great industrial city with wonderful buildings, a fine Town Hall – very imposing it is, to be sure. And there are shops, Emma, the best of them in arcades—’
‘What’s that? An arcade? I’ve never heard of it,’ Emma said, looking at him intently.
‘Ah, a place to feast the eyes, sure an’ it is. An arcade is like a wide passageway between two big buildings, but it has a roof over it, and shops line each side, selling beautiful things. Jewels, handbags, silken scarves, woollen jumpers, all kinds of things for ladies. And for men too. And there are also restaurants in Leeds, for delicious meals, and theatres. I can go on and on talking about Leeds, on the heads of the Blessed Saints, I can. And they say the streets are made of gold. Imagine that.’
Emma stopped abruptly and stared at him, a startled expression on her face. ‘Are they real gold?’
Blackie chuckled. ‘No, mavourneen, they’re not. It’s just a saying folks have. What they mean is that there are jobs aplenty in this great city, and work for everyone. And ’tis the truth. I came to Leeds to live with me Uncle Patrick, and I learned to be a carpenter and a builder. Uncle Pat and me, well, we’ve got a lot of work. We’re a success. I’m building a guesthouse right now for Lord Robert Lassiter of Bolton Manor.’
Emma, looking very impressed, and also extremely interested, asked, ‘Could a girl like me make her fortune in Leeds then?’
Blackie hesitated. The city was no place for a scrawny young girl. He was about to answer negatively when he recognized the passionate gleam in her eyes, the ambition that burned fiercely. ‘Sure an’ ye could, mavourneen. But not now, Emma, not yet. ’Tis a fine city, but dangerous too, for a girl like you.’
‘Hey, what’s that word mean that yer call me … mavourneen?’
‘Ah, ’tis just a word of affection, Emma, like luv, or dear. It’s a nice name. I like ye, ye seem like a nice girl, and I think ye are probably clever, too. Yes, ye would easily get a job in the city. I can guarantee that ye could sell things in stores, for instance, or find work in one of the manufactories making the fine dresses.’
‘If I came ter yer great metropolis, as yer call it, would yer show me the ropes?’
‘Sure, on the heads of the Blessed Saints, I swear I would.’
Emma smiled at him, her green eyes sparkling, and it seemed to Blackie that there was a new spring in her step as they walked towards the crest.
An observer and a fiend when it came to detail, Blackie had taken everything in: the old, worn black coat which had obviously seen better days, but was neatly patched. The old black boots, highly polished, and the old shawls around her shoulders, darned here and there. But all were scrupulously clean. Her face beneath the shawl was scrubbed and shining, but it was those green eyes that caught his attention, and her lovely features. She had a thin, pinched look but, in a year or two, she would be a beautiful young woman. There was no question about that.
Filled with interest, he asked, ‘And do ye have any brothers and sisters, Emma?’
‘Aye, I do. Two brothers. Winston, who wants to join the Royal Navy, and me dad won’t let him go yet. Me mam’s not well, and Dad says if Winston runs off, it’ll be the last nail in her coffin.’ Emma let out a sigh, and finished, ‘And there’s me younger brother, Frank, who’s clever. He’d like ter be a writer on a newspaper. One day. But I don’t know how he’ll manage that.’
‘He could go to night school, like I did,’ Blackie said swiftly, wanting to cheer her up. She suddenly looked so sad.
Instantly, a smile flashed across her face. ‘Will yer tell me how ter make that happen later?’
‘It’ll be my pleasure, Emma. I want ye to know I’ll help ye any way I can.’ He looked down at her and added, ‘I believe we’re going to become good friends, and that pleases me.’
‘And it pleases me, too. I’ve never had a real friend before, and I’m glad it’s you, Blackie O’Neill.’
FIFTY-ONE
The two of them walked towards the crest of the hill in silence, lost in their own thoughts. Emma was dwelling on her mother’s ill-health; Blackie was focusing on the repair work he had to do at Fairley Hall: chimneys, flues, and some outside walls between the stables. Five days’ work and several extra, if needed. Good money though. That was important.
Unexpectedly, Emma laughed and started to run, shouting over her shoulder, ‘I’m going ter yon gate.’
He smiled as he watched her flying across the field. When she arrived at the white-painted gate, she unlatched it, stood on it, and swung forward, laughing once more as she went backwards and forwards, enjoying herself.
When Blackie joined her, he said, ‘Here, let me give ye a good push!’ He did this several times, delighted that she was having fun in a girlish manner.
A few moments later, she jumped off the gate, and said, ‘We got ter get moving, Blackie. I don’t want ter be late.’
‘How far is the Hall?’ Blackie asked, striding out beside her.
‘Ye’ll see it in a few minutes, when we get ter that moor in front of us.’
Silence fell between them once again. Several times he glanced down at her and saw that her face was now set in more serious lines. And he thought she even looked a bit anxious. But he made no comment. After all, they had only just met a short while ago.
After climbing up the hill, they were finally on top of the moor which overlooked a small valley. Emma looked out across the River Aire below, and then turned to face Blackie. ‘That’s where they live!’ she exclaimed, pointing to a house in the valley.
Staring back at her, he was genuinely taken aback by the expression in those emerald eyes. It was one of pure hatred, and her face was tense with controlled emotion.
He felt a small shiver running through him. She was more than likely badly treated by the Fairleys – well, perhaps some of them, maybe only one. But the hatred was a palpable thing, and he wondered what he would find inside the Hall.
Clearing his throat, staring down at the house, he exclaimed, ‘What an awful-looking place that is, Emma! Chimneys and towers, add-on buildings, and no symmetry. A monstrosity, if ye ask me. And here I was, thinking it would be a grand house, Georgian, perhaps even Palladian in style. But this house, Fairley Hall, is just a muddled mess. A hodgepodge of styles.’
His words obviously pleased Emma, and she smiled, and said, ‘And I knows yer right, ’cos yer an expert. It’s not got nice gardens either. And they’re awful people, the Fairleys, most of ’em,’ she finished dismissively.
